


Sinful Escape

by whynotmisha



Series: Sinful Escape Series [1]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Prison, Anal Sex, Angst, Asshole Terry Milkovich, Bottom Mickey Milkovich, But also heavy bdsm, Consensual but not sane, Everything is consensual, Gallavich, Homophobic Language, I will add tags later, IAN WAS ADOPTED BY THE RUSSAKOVIK FAMILY thats why he is referred to as russakovik in the beginning, Ian is Russian, Ian is lowkey but also highkey sociopath, Ian is psychotic, Insecure Mickey, Light BDSM, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mickey In Denial, Oral Sex, Prison Guard Mickey, Prisoner Ian, Psychological Torture, Psychotic Ian, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rough Sex, Russian Hit Man Ian, Sex Toys, Sexual Content, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, There is a part that involves a past of rape but not between ian and mickey, Top Ian Gallagher, he has trouble with mental emotions, that is the mental health issue
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-31
Updated: 2015-08-02
Packaged: 2018-04-12 04:34:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4465628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whynotmisha/pseuds/whynotmisha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Basically, Ian is Russia's most renown hit man and he is accused and sentenced to prison for murder while he is in America. He goes to prison, I call it Alcatraz, but it is not the same one. It is a giant prison in Chicago. Anywho, Mickey is a new guard and Ian is planning to break out and figures he can use Mickey somehow as his scape goat by using psychological means to manipulate Mickey -- read more to find out how and if Ian, the genius hit man, manages to escape from prison.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Alcatraz

**Author's Note:**

> Alcatraz is a maximum security prison in Chicago, enjoy.

The day was beautiful, quite ironic to be honest. The sun hung high in the baby blue sky, which was dusted perfectly with fluffy clouds. The flowers were in bloom, the trees fruits were blossoming, but Ian was not blooming free -- he was being constricted by the hands of the law. The American law. 

“Shèf?” Boss. 

“What is it, Aleksander?” Ian rolls slowly off of his smooth tongue.

“How long will you be off? Not too long, I hope. We will not be able to function properly with you gone.” Aleksander, Ian's body guard, spoke quietly with his rough voice, almost as if he were a whisper in the wind, with thunder cracking in the distance. 

“Oh Alek, you know me, I will not be gone for long. I am Russia’s most admired hit man. I can manage a few months in prison; I will be out within the year.” Casually, Ian replied cockily, though rightfully. 

“Who will replace you while you are gone? Have you chosen a successor?” Ian laughed, chuckled per se, staring dead into Alek's steel eyes. “Do you honestly think anyone can replace me? Oh Dear Aleksander, you have much to learn.” The bodyguard froze, quickly apologizing for his wrong doing. Why would I ask such a stupid thing, Alek thought. “I apologise, sir, I do have much to learn.” 

“But, since you are curious, I will have you put in my spot, but only to manage my work, you are not ready for the field quite yet.” Honest, Ian replied.

“But sir, there is no possible way I could manage such a huge project! I do not want to fail you! And what if you don’t escape? What then? Your sentence will probably be set for thirty fucking years! We will fail without you!” Alek's large chest heaves beneath his faded blue t-shirt, veins protruding from his toned neck. 

“Ne isportit” Don’t fuck up.

Ian's sharp accent slices the thick air, sending his command firmly. Aleksander knew not to speak; he understood when to keep quiet, and now was one of those times. A knock on the door quite possibly saves Aleksander’s heart from imploding; never had he been so relieved to see a law abiding lawyer in the same room as himself.  
“Ah, Mr. Russokavik? The jury has come to a verdict, the judge will see you now.” Ian smiled grimly, almost joyed knowing he would be proven guilty. “Thank you Mr. Putavin, you are a great friend of us Russokavik’s. But please, refer to me as Mr. Gallagher, that is my birth name.” Ian thanked the elderly man with a psychotic stare and corrected his honest mistake, scaring the man into apologizing and saying "you're welcome".

The three men returned to the courtroom; it was quiet, almost dead silent, which scared the hell out of Aleksander and the lawyer, but brought bliss to Ian. Naturally, Ian was in handcuffs, then was seated inside of the booth, and of course he eagerly awaited for the verdict, smilingly at the guard whom had seated him. 

“We are here in regards of whether or not Ian Russakovik is guilty of manslaughter,” The absolutely shrill judge looks down, glancing at the verdict, as if she had not known what was coming, “and, without further adieu, Ian Russakovik is hereby declared guilty of second degree manslaughter. Russakovik, you are sentenced to forty years in a maximum security prison with mandatory security at all costs, considering you are under suspicion of being apart of the Russian Mafia — that has also affected the outcome of this sentence.” The crowd gasped at the sound of Russian, but Ian just smirked, proud of his sentence. Proud of his new challenge; the seemingly impossible escape from Alcatraz.

It took only a month, just thirty days, and the fiery red headed Russian had claimed the United States' most renowned maximum security prison as his 'bitch'. Ian, being the intimidating, quite psychotic man he was, scared the hell out of the majority of the inmates; the ones who were not scared shitless had either no knowledge of the murderous man, or were just too prideful for their own good. Remarkably, the first week for Ian went smoothly. He only had to speak his name for the inmates to be scared; most of them knew his family and their wretched history. Others just heard what trickled down to them -- the gory stories about how Ian "Russakovik" killed many men by pulling their naked bodies down a ramp with razor blades protruding from the surface, right into a pool of rubbing alcohol over and over again, and the others that involved a painfully slow death brought upon by starvation, a bit of drill play, a lighter, and a carton of cigarettes. Those stories alone were enough to frighten the remaining crowd who knew nothing of the Russakovik family name.

Surprising the guards, Ian was undeniably polite and respectful; though that still scared the ever living shit out of them. They suspected Ian was just playing a mind game, one that would catch them off guard and bite them in the ass in the long run. Though, they were not wrong in their suspicions, Ian Russakovik is a dangerous genius. 

Ian loved to tempt the guards, most of which were muscular, strong men who were easily aroused -- Ian got quite the kick out them. He never went to the extremity -- nothing that would get him locked in solitary confinement, but he had fun -- if you call staring at the guards as if they were a meal, that you also could fuck, fun. To Ian, it was exhilarating. He loved screwing with people's heads, and he loved sexually arousing, while seamlessly confusing them even more. He had only managed to create sexual tension for three of the guards so far: Roman, Tom, and a new guard that Ian had not yet learned the name of. 

The new one has only been working on the floor for two days, Ian only being able to see him for a few hours with-in that time slot, yet still managing to make the small, muscular man become a flustered, hot mess with just his evergreen eyes and a strong stare to go with them. The unknown guard already took the place as Ian's favorite, after all, he was the easiest to rouse and always had lines wrinkling his forehead with confusion; how could he not be Ian's favorite?


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mickey meets Ian, Ian is interested in Mickey.

Ian has been in prison for five months now and it was lunchtime, twelve o'clock on the dot, like always; the bell rung, signaling the cell doors, and block doors, to open. Hundreds of inmates -- most of which were bad ass looking muscular convicts -- walked out, in no particular hurry, and made their way to the lunch room. Ian minded his own business, stood in line peacefully, and used his best manners; after all, Ian is a man of twisted respect and gratitude. 

Today the kitchen was serving something that was called chicken, but closely resembled a blended up pig guts, with a side of gritty cornbread, soggy carrots, and an expired fruit cup -- all eaten with a plastic spork of course. Ian grew up vegetarian, so he did not eat the meat portion of his meal and instead offered it to his surprisingly skinny cell mate, Fränc. 

Fränc was a blonde german man, lucky enough to be apart of the Russian "clique" due to his outside sources. He was known for bringing in the majority of the contraband that sailed its way through Alcatraz; the Russians got a discount in return for the much needed protection. 

"Fränc, Ich bin fertig mit meinem Essen, Sie das Huhn?" Ian asked Fränc politely. (Fränc, i am done with my food, would you like my chicken?) 

"Ja! Vielen Dank, Ian." Fränc smiled and greedily reached for Ian's untouched chicken, arousing a small laugh to come from Ian's throat. A rare occurrence, but Fränc's excitement over food always amused the red head. 

Ian spoke to Fränc in german, for the most part. It was easier for Fränc and allowed Ian to practice his german — though, he did not honestly need to practice, he just simply enjoyed speaking german occasionally. 

The guards watched the interactions between the inmates, with one particular set of guard eyes set right on Ian. Sharing food in prison was generally frowned upon for some unknown reason, but the guards generally disregarded this rule, except for the fresh, new guards. Milkovich, a guard who just recently started working in the prison, eyed the interaction between Fränc and Ian, and quickly took action. 

Milkovich, with his fierce blue eyes and jet black hair, rushed over to the Russian's table, ready to lay down the rules. 

"Inmate, why are ya giving your food to another inmate? You know thats against the rules, don't ya?" Milkovich, with his soft, yet rigid Chicago accent asked the red head with a sternness so hard it caused Ian to let out a small laugh. 

Ian glanced at the guards name tag, finally being able to read the confused mystery man's name off of the patch sewn haphazardly into the blue and grey uniform, and smiled, looking up at Milkovich with a devilish look. 

"You see, Milkovich, I am a vegetarian, which means I do not eat meat -- you understand this, yes?" Ian asked, only a slight russian accent rolling of his smooth tongue. 

"Yes, I fucking know what a vegetarian is --" Milkovich was cut off by the red head, "Iankov Gallagher, or Ian for short, Milkovich." 

"Okay, Gallagher. I know what the fuck a vegetarian is, but that did not answer my question, now did it?" Milkovich retaliated with a snarky tone evident in his accent. 

"Ahh, Milkovich. I am a vegetarian, yes? So, I do not eat meat. What am I to do with this left over meat? I do not wish to waste this meal that the kitchen has slaved over all day for, so I figured, 'why not share it with Fränc?', seems like a good enough reason to me." Ian smirked, proud of his reasonable answer, and eagerly awaited Milkovich's response. 

"Inmate--"

"Please, call me Ian." 

"Inmate," Milkovich said sternly, "that is still against protocol, just because you choose not to eat meat does not mean the rules have changed." Milkovich glared at Ian, blue eyes locked with fierce green ones, holding blue eyes in a confusing trance. 

"Inmate? I had hoped we would be able to be more friendly with each other, Milkovich, but as it seems we have not yet reached that set goal." Ian frowned, eyes still locked with Milkovich's, and continued,"If sharing my food is such a huge problem, I will not continue my actions, but, I want you to know that I believe that rule is ridiculous and I advise you to tend to bigger problems." Ian said cooly, with a hint of sarcasm. 

"Bigger problems? Such as what, inmate?" Milkovich snapped in response. 

"Oh, you'll see, Milkovich. The time will come." Ian smiled incredulously, confusing Milkovich with his words rather than with his eyes for once. 

Finally, Milkovich cleared his voice and re-took his dominance, "Get back to lunch, inmate, and stop sharing your food or there will be consequences." 

"Consequences? Ahh, sounds scary. I will not continue my actions then, Milkovich." Ian smirked, turning back to his lunch tray, pretending to eat the rest of his meal. 

"Fränc, Ich entschuldige mich, diese Schutzabdeckung wird ein dick." Ian said with a chuckle following, turning his glance towards Milkovich for a split second. Fränc laughed, saying it was alright, and continued eating the rest of his meal. 

Milkovich walked away, still going over the words that the frustrating red head had said to him. What bigger problems would he have to deal with? An inmate acting out? That rarely happened, and when it did, there were enough guards on duty to get the job done before more, even larger problems advanced. 

The end of lunch bell rang and all of the inmates were rounded up and sent to the jail-yard for their daily hour outside. A group of guards went with the inmates, while some stayed behind to work on other matters. Milkovich was assigned some paperwork earlier in the day, so he walked back to the giant office that his group — group C — shared.

"Yo, Mick! Wait up!" Another guard called after Milkovich, probably Pinkman from the sound of it. 

"What, Pinkman? Don't say my name here, I don't want the fucking convicts sayin' my name, jackass." Mickey said angrily, Chicago accent prominent in his words. 

"Dude, calm the fuck down. What? An inmate stir ya up or something? I called your last name like three times before you turned when I said Mick." Pinkman said in response. 

"Nothing really, just this fucking weird as hell red head — Russian, I think? — anyways, he was just being a fucking sarcastic dick, really annoying if ya ask me." 

"Red head, huh? His name Russakovik by chance? Introduce himself as his birth name that sounds a little somethin' like yawnkov?" Pinkman asked.

"Yeah? Except he said Gallagher, not Russakovik." Mickey said confused.

"That son of a bitch! His birth name is Gallagher, the Russakovik family adopted him, but he likes to keep his birth name for some reason." Pinkman explained briefly.

"Why do you even know that, he some famous psycho or somethin'?" Mickey laughed, asking Pinkman the stupid question because why else would he know that tidbit of information? He's Pinkman! He would not know such a thing without cause.

"Well yeah, actually. He's in here for second degree murder, but he technically didn't kill the guy. He's also like this big shot in the Russian mafia. Their number one hit man? Yeah, I think thats it." Pinkman explained with little detail.

"Isn't everyone in here for murder? What the fucks so special about the ginger Russian, who 'technically didn't kill the guy'?" 

"Well yeah, everyone here has killed someone, but the way Gallagher kills 'em is fucking freaky. I heard that the guy he killed was like being harassed by Gallagher for months, some weird shit, dude." Pinkman paused, drew in some smoke from his cigarette — they always came out of nowhere it seemed — and continued his story, "so, Gallagher would kidnap the dude, right? And he would torture him a bit, I don't really know how, but he would make sure the guy wouldn't say anything about it, must've really roughed the guy up. Anyways, he let the guy go, waited a few months until the guy thought he was safe, and kidnapped him again! Crazy right? He tortured him more and did this, what? Two more times? And finally, the last time he took him, he set up this fucking Saw III type of deal — y'know the ones that like make you kill yourself or go through pain to get some tool so you won't die? Fucking crazy mother fucker put him in one of those and the guy just couldn't go through the pain, so the contraption killed em." Pinkman finished, absolutely breathless from his seemingly endless mantra about the psychotic doings of the Russian hit man, Ian Gallagher. 

"The fuck, Mark? The guy looks like he just turned fucking 21 yesterday! How can he be that fucked in the head?" Mickey asked, bewildered by what he just heard. 

"Dude, he's fucking 23! Not that far off! Fucking crazy, man, I would steer clear of him and just let him do what he wants. He's not much trouble anyways. What'd ya dock him for anyway?" Mickey blushed slightly, embarrassed for what he got on to the red head for.

"Nah man, nothing really." Mickey coughed awkwardly.

"C'mon! Tell me Mick, ya dock him for coughing or something?" Mark laughed stupidly at his own joke.

"Uh, well, he was sharing his food with the german guy I think--" Mark cut Mickey off, "German? Guy's name is Frank or some shit, but they say it like Frau-nk, fucking weird." Mickey rolled his eyes and continued, "right, anyways, Gallagher was sharing his food with Fränc, and the handbook said that sharing food was against protocol, so I docked him for it. Turns out hes a fucking vegetarian, doesn't eat his meat, and was just giving his chicken to Fränc or some shit." Mickey scratched the back of his neck awkwardly, while Pinkman just threw his head back and laughed at the newcomer. 

"Fucking docked him for sharing his food? Dude! No one gives a shit about sharing food, just let em do it." He continued to laugh at Mickey, while Mickey just gave Mark a death look and called him a jack ass. 

"Okay, whatever Mark, I was just doing what the fucking handbook said, lay off, bitch." Mickey rolled his eyes and turned his attention towards his lunch and the paperwork he was assigned earlier in the day.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shit happens in the jail yard

The jail yard was bland; concrete rectangle for the weight area, grass growing haphazardly through the cracks of the bumpy grey stone, and another aging concrete rectangle for the basketball court, that only had one hoop. There were bleachers alongside the basketball court, but no one used them to watch whatever was happening in the court before them, they generally sat down for the shade because the bleachers were strategically placed in the shadow of the prison building. 

Ian, along with the majority of the Russians, used this time to work out and keep their muscles and health in line. Ruzik, Ian's right hand man, was a large, well built fellow who had tattoos everywere — even on his face. Ruzik was generally used for protection, though Ian did not particularly need any protection from anyone because he could handle anyone on his own and barely sweat a drop. 

Ian, like always, started with a jog around the jail yard to get his blood flowing and his heart pumping — Ruzik, Kander, and Kuskov followed Ian's ritual routine and jogged with him, though they were more on the lookout, rather than a casual jog. They watched everything around Ian, making sure no one showed no interest in their Shéf; the less the interest, the lower the threat of infiltration and harm to their leader. 

Kuskov looked to the right, still jogging closely behind Ian, and saw that Devon — a man known for killing at least three people in his stay at prison — was watching Ian as he ran, with a stare that made Kuskov cautious. Devon got up from his seat on the bleachers and patiently waited for Ian to finish his jog, keeping a close eye one the slender, yet perfectly sculpted red head, unaware of the three men following him strategically. 

Ian came to a stop, slowly and steadily, and evened out his breaths to prepare for the next step of his workout. The three men following him halted, and spaced out, creating a diversion. 

"Shéf." Kuskov called out, not directly facing him, and nodded his head towards Devon while he stretched his arms to look less suspicious. 

"Ahh, I see Kuskov. I noticed him a while back, thank you for the lookout, though. It is appreciated." Ian thanked the slightly shorter man with jet black hair and square jaw, then continued with his work out, hoping Devon would walk over some time soon. 

Much to his luck, Devon made his way to Ian, licking his lips as he watched the red head — who was now shirtless — do push-ups on the cracking cement. 

"Yo, Red? You the one that killed a guy Saw style, right?" Devon asked, eyeing the muscles in Ian's back as they flexed with each movement he made. Ian, hearing this, came to a stop and stood up, wiping his hands on his orange pants. 

"My name is Iankov, but you may call me Ian, Devon, is it? Why are you interested in who I killed and how? Seems a bit macabre if you ask me." Ian asked cooly, intentionally letting his Russian accent reveal itself more than usual. 

"Well, I just dont see how someone as sexy as you can pull off somethin' like that." Devon replied, lowering his voice an octave hoping to sound more seductive.

Ian laughed, looking Devon dead in the eyes with a cold stare, "Trying to make me your "bitch", yes?" Ian asked, laying one hand on Devon's bicep and the other dangerously close to his groin. Ian stared into Devon's dark brown eyes seductively, biting his lip, and held his position for a second more before he kneed Devon in the groin, and swept his leg, twisting his arm — making the large, black man fall to the ground face first. 

Ian kept the twisted arm behind the mans back, one knee firmly placed in the center of Devon's spine, and held him in this position until Devon managed to squirm his way out of Ian's hold. Devon turned to face the red head, still on his back, and threw a punch towards Ian's face. He missed, but it threw Ian off guard for a moment and he managed to get to his feet, stumbling a little due to the awkward position he was in just a few seconds before. Ian, on the other hand, stood up flawlessly and watched the black man before him. 

Devon threw a punch, Ian dodged it, and Devon tried again — Ian flawlessly dodging his fist again. Ian's opponent threw another punch, which was caught by Ian's hands and brought behind his back — twisting his arm for the second time in the past three minutes. Devon struggled and tried to free himself from Ian's surprisingly strong grip, and was brought to ground once again.

Ian leaned down as he pinned the large man to the ground, and whispered in his ear, "I am no ones bitch, Devon. I suggest you take your business else where and stay out of trouble." Ian pulled on Devon's twisted arm, slightly moving it into a more painful position. 

"Fucking faggot! Get the fuck off of me before I fucking kill you!" Devon yelled and struggled, to no avail, and Ian pulled on Devon's twisted arm swiftly, popping the mans shoulder out of place and said to Devon in a psychotic tone, "It is not nice to call people fowl names, Devon." 

Devon let out a yell, bringing the guards attention to the fight. Quickly, the guards dispatched and Ian gracefully got up off of Devon, and put his hands up in surrender. Two guards brought Ian to the ground, handcuffing the red head's hands behind his back.

"What the fuck, Gallagher? You've been nothing but solid since you got here, the fuck happened inmate?" One of the guards asked, bewildered by what had just happened. It was unlike Ian to act out and disobey the rules, but today was full of surprises. 

Ian simply smiled, and looked to Kuskov, mouthing the words in Russian, "It's all apart of my plan."


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (;

"Milkovich, please report to block D." Mickey rolled his eyes at the static voice coming from his walkie talkie and set down his peanut butter and banana sandwich. 

"Alright, on my way." He voiced back, quickly packing up his half finished lunch. 

"What the fuck could they want me for? Pinkman, what do they usually call ya for?" 

"Sam just texted me and said there was a fight in the jail yard! And dude! It was fucking Gallagher and this giant black guy! Gallagher popped the dudes shoulder out of socket, fucking crazy, you're probably transferring Gallagher to Solitary from the looks of it, they're in block D right? Yeah, you're probably gonna transport Gallagher. " Pinkman said excitedly. 

"I have to transport that fucking psycho?" Mickey asked rhetorically while he walked out of the Group C office, making his was to Block D.

Mickey quickly made his way down to Block D, going over a thousand different scenarios that could occur while transporting the ambiguous psycho. He rounded his way past the last white corner and saw a large black man being transported by some men in white — probably the medical wing — and an incredibly calm red head in hand cuffs, looking Mickey square in the eye, being held by two fellow guards — Santonio and Gonzalez.

"Milkovich, there ya are! You know where solitary is, right?" Gonzalez asked as soon as he saw Mickey round the corner.

"Uh, yeah, I think. Its building 102, right?" Mickey asked, thinking over the layout of the prison he had received a few days before, trying to avoid the cold emerald stare coming from Gallagher. 

"Yep, you got it. Just take one of the vans and lock Gallagher up in one of the cells. Pretty sure they're all open, just stick em in one." Gonzalez replied, handing over the slightly taller red head to the shorter, yet equally muscular Mickey.

Mikey took hold of Ian's shoulder, putting his other hand around one of Ian's wrists, nudging the convict forward. Ian smirked, enjoying how close him and Mickey were and how easily he could switch positions if he so wanted to. 

"Are you or are you not going to ask me why I, the oh so perfect inmate, acted so dangerously out of conduct? I'm sure you've heard stories about me and how surprisingly well behaved I have been from the other guards — especially Pinkman, yes? He loves to gossip." Ian turned his head slightly back to see the expression on Mickey's face, surprised to see a stone stare, fixed straight ahead of the two men, "ahh, nothing, Milkovich? You have got to be slightly curious, at most." Ian chuckled lowly, throwing another glance at the shorter man behind him, but to no avail. 

"I am not here to listen to your fuckin' excuse or story, alright? That shit is for your counselor." Mickey replied, obviously annoyed by how mouthy Ian was being. 

The two continued to walk to the garage where the multiple white vans were, quietly — thankfully for the easily annoyed guard. Mickey picked a van and put Ian in the back, chaining him to the railing (in the middle of the van) set up especially for transporting prisoners to other areas. There was a bullet proof glass piece separating the back from the front, with a few holes meant for sound to get through. 

"Milkovich, since you have not specified if you, personally, would like to hear my reason as to why I acted out so severely, I will go ahead and tell you anyways." Ian said, messing with the cuffs around his wrists, while Mickey rolled his eyes and proceeded forward, out of the large garage. 

"So, there I was — in the jail yard — minding my own business while I ran around the yard, when I realized that Devon was watching me. I kept running — I have a particular routine I follow — and when I came to a stop, Devon, as I had predicted, walked over to me. At the time I was doing pushups and Devon was looking at me like I was some sort of meal that he could fuck, and I did not like that. Looking at someone like that is disrespectful, yes? To me it is, so I waited to see what he would do next. He asked me if I was the man that killed someone "Saw-style", whatever that means. Do you know what that means, Milkovich?" Ian paused, looking into the rear view mirror searching for Milkovich's eyes, and was responded to in silence. "Not going to speak? That is alright, I will continue. So, he asked me if I was the Saw-style guy, and I asked why he was so interested in my killings — seemed a bit macabre to me. He replied with saying something along the lines of I could not have possibly of pulled of such a scheme because of how sexy I am — I did not like this. I could obviously tell he was trying to make me his "bitch", as you americans like to call it, and I am no ones "bitch". If anything, I am the one who has a "bitch". So, I teased him for a moment, then brought him to the ground. He managed to get out of my grip, but only for maybe thirty seconds? Yes, he is a bad fighter — all talk and no walk. He threw a few punches and naturally I dodged them all and brought him to the ground again, told him to take his business elsewhere, and he called me a faggot! Unbelievable. Absolutely disrespectful, so I popped his shoulder out of place. He deserved it, yes?" Ian asked Milkovich, looking for the blue eyes in the rear view mirror once more; this time finding a smirk and a hand over his mouth, fighting the urge to laugh. 

"I woulda done more to him than just pop his shoulder outta socket, but the son of a bitch deserved it, nice goin', Gallagher." Mickey replied, turning into the parking lot for building 102. 

"I like the way you say that, Milkovich. Say it again." Ian demanded, emeralds locked fiercely with sapphires. 

"Shut the fuck up, inmate, were here. Lock it down." Mickey said defensively, slightly stumbling on his words — cheeks pinking slowly. 

"Back to inmate? Thought we were getting somewhere, Milkovich. We'll get there eventually." Ian replied, continuing to hold his gaze firmly with Milkovich. Mickey looked away quickly, fumbling with the keys for a split second before he managed to turn off the car and open the door. Ian chuckled lowly, amused by the suddenly flimsy man. Mickey got out of the car, ran his hand through his jet black hair, and walked over to other side of the vehicle where the van door was. He took a deep breath before he slid the door open, revealing the smirking red head, patiently waiting to get out of the van. 

"Well? What are you waiting for, sapphire?" Ian said, referring to Mickey as the astonishing blue color of his eyes — which only frazzled Mickey more. 

Mickey shook his head, hoping to shake away the blush from his cheeks, and moved to unlock Gallagher from the pole before him. Once Mickey managed to free Ian from the pole, he waited for the red head to get out of the car, then promptly took the same position he had on Ian prior to the van ride to solitary. 

In silence, the two men walked to their designated area. Once they reached the door that lead into the facility, Mickey entered the days pin number — 75706560 — into the pin pad, opening the door, and proceeded into the building. The walls in solitary were similar to the ones in the main prison, except they were randomly blemished with what looked to be old blood stains — most likely caused by angered inmates who would rather die than be in solitary. Mickey saw the light stains and cringed at the somewhat eerie sight, while Ian just smiled, enlightened by his surroundings. 

The couple walked through the halls, Milkovich showing his I.D. card when needed to open another door to a different sector, until they were completely secluded in sector C. Sector C held the solitary confinement cells and was completely cut off from everyone else in building 102, due to budget cuts (surveillance cameras were not of top priority in solitary, due to the lack of inmate flow) and the single door that lead into sector C that automatically locked when it shut. 

Ian took notice of the absolute solitude and smirked to himself while he messed with his cuffs, recalling his earlier thoughts of how easily he could switch positions with Milkovich. All was silent in sector C, except for the two set of foot steps coming from the men. Mickey looked around, looking to see if there were any inmates in the cells and came to the conclusion the Gonzalez was right — there was no one in solitary. 

When Mickey reached the cell he was going to put Gallagher in, Ian came to an abrupt stop, causing Mickey to run right into Ian's back, "What the fuck, Galla–" Mickey was cut off by Ian throwing his head back, hitting Mickey's nose — causing Mickey to release Ian for a split second as he reached for his nose, allowing Ian to turn around and maneuver Mickey between himself and the wall, pinning him against it with his entire body.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cliffhanger (:


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mickey takes care of something (-:

Ian brought his cuffed hands up to Mickey's throat and pinned them there, slightly choking the guard pinned in front of him, holding him in a stable spot. Mickey attempted to push the strong red head off of him, but Ian managed to pin his elbows in just the right spot, disabling Mickey's attempts of pushing the red head away. Ian used his feet to push apart Mickey's legs to a little less than shoulder width apart, and placed his right leg between the spread ones, settling his thigh right on Mickey's groin. Mickey grunted and struggled beneath Ian's hold, which only moved Mickey's groin against Ian's thigh, arousing the sensitive bit beneath Mickey's pants. 

"If you keep moving, you're going to have a problem down there." Ian said, glancing down at Mickey's crotch, then back up to Mickey's fearful eyes. "Don't worry, Milkovich, I'm not going to hurt you. I have no more harmful intentions — besides, I couldn't harm a beautiful face like yours, that would be a sin." Ian smiled sadistically, holding his body firmly against Mickey's. "I'm going to loosen my hold on your throat, if you move an inch, I will stop it. I think I have proven my abilities thus far, yes?" Ian stared darkly into Mickey's sapphire eyes, waiting for a response.

"Y-yes, you have." Mickey choked out, straining his throat due to the restraints against it. Ian loosened his grip and Mickey took a deep breath, remaining still beneath Ian. 

"Good boy," Ian moved his thigh against Mickey's groin for a moment, feeling his dick harden in response, and continued, "nice response, Milkovich, I like that a lot." Ian smirked and looked into Mickey's darkening eyes. Mickey accidentally slipped out a moan, signaling a rush of red to make its way to his cheeks. "Ahh, good boy, you like that, don't you?" Ian asked as Mickey looked away embarrassed, blush prominent on his fair skin. Ian leaned forward and brought his mouth to Mickey's ear, "now listen, Milkovich, you're to tell this to no one, understand?" Mickey stuttered out a quick yes before Ian continued. "Good boy, very nice. I'm going keep moving my thigh, do you want me to stop?" Mickey groaned, then blushed, but did not tell Ian to stop. Ian continued to move his thigh against the obvious erection while Mickey's breaths gradually became more ragged, then Ian abruptly stopped, for the second time today, and moved away from Mickey. 

Surprised, Mickey turned quickly towards Ian to face him, almost blurting out, "why'd you stop?", before he caught himself and realized what just happened. Mickey quickly grabbed Ian, regained some of his dominance, and shoved Ian against the wall. Mickey quickly entered the pin code to the cell — 75706560 — and opened the door before Gallagher could pull anymore moves on him. 

"Feisty, aren't ya? I'll get in the cell, just cool down, Milkovich." Ian laughed at Mickey's sudden rage, and waited for Mickey to make his next move. Mickey eased up and pulled Ian in front of the entrance to the cell, "Get in, inmate." Mickey said monotonously, Chicago accent evident in his voice. 

"Alright, let go of me, Milkovich. Sorry, but you cannot hold onto me for forever, we're not quite there yet." Ian smirked and felt Mickey hesitantly let him go, embarrassed by his actions and by what Ian said. 

Ian walked into the cell and Mickey shut the barred door quickly, locking the door behind Ian, and turned to walk away before Ian's voice stopped him. "Are you or are you not going to take these cuffs off? I know how solitary works, Milkovich, and it does not involve handcuffs around my wrists." Ian called out, Russian accent thickly woven in with his words due to his momentary annoyance. 

"Oh, yeah, sorry. I-I didn't mean to do that. Sorry." Mickey apologized, stuttering his way through it, and reached for the keys that were in his pocket. He found the key to the handcuffs with somewhat shaky hands and told Ian to stick his hands through the bars. Mickey remained close to the bars of the cell door without thinking, and unlocked the cuffs from Ian's wrists, which was then followed by Gallagher reaching out at Mickey, grabbing and pulling him up to the bars. The fierce red head reached one hand down to Mickey's crotch and felt around for a second, then looked directly into Mickey's sapphire eyes and said roughly, "you're going to have to take care of that, Milkovich" and let go, turning around to plop himself onto the metal framed bed with a paper thin mattress. Mickey on the otherhand, turned around briskly before he walked — uncomfortably— towards the exit. 

Once Mickey got out of sector C, he bee lined for the closest rest room. It took him a while to find one, given the fact that this was his first time in building 102, but eventually he came across the men's room. Mickey bolted into a stall and kneeled down in front of the toilet, suddenly feeling sick to his stomach. He waited a few moments to see if anything would come up, but nothing did — though he was still left with another uncomfortable problem. Mickey tried to think the bulge between his legs away, but he was too hyped up and irrationally horny for it to just disappear by will power. He thought over his options and realized he only had one, viable option that made sense. 

Mickey hesitantly reached down to his crotch, unzipped his pants with nervous hands, groaned when his finger accidentally grazed over his erection, and pulled his dick out of his underwear so he could get this done, and get it done quickly. The guard spit in his hand for easy lubrication and got to work. He gripped his cock loosely, but tight enough to put just the right amount of friction, and started to move his hand, up and down, up and down, repeatedly and quickly sped up his movements. Before long Mickey's breaths became more ragged as he gradually reached his climax, his throat threatened to let go of low sounds, so he brought his free hand up to his mouth and bit his hand, hard, to suppress the moans. Mickey's pumps became less consistent as he reached his climax, finally bursting with one final pump. As he came into the toilet before him, biting his hand could do absolutely nothing to suppress the low sound of pleasure that escaped his throat; he gave his dick a few last final pumps to get everything out of his system, and reached for the toilet paper to clean the excess off, and threw it into the toilet bowl — flushing, watching the white substances spiral down into oblivion. 

Mickey's breaths evened out as he situated himself and zipped his pants back up, unlocking the stall and continuing to the sink. He washed his hands in scorching hot water, hoping to wash away more than just the dirt on his hands. A million things raced through Mickey's head, though he could not decipher what they were. His thoughts were twisting vines, constricting his focus like snakes on prey — the one thing his mind could focus on was the one thing he dreaded the most. 

Mickey was never one to face his problems; he always pushed them aside like paperwork, stacking them up all around him, slowly secluding himself from the reality with-in him. But he was no coward, he fought like a soldier to keep those stacks from falling, just so the worlds of people around him would not have to. If he turned to tend to one of the seemingly endless stacks, everything around him would shake and crumble, for he held the world on his shoulders and could not disappoint. 

Mickey took a few deep breaths, glanced at himself in the mirror, and pushed everything to the side, marking the problems for later — much later. He fixed his collar, brushed his jet black hair back with his fingers, and turned to the exit. He left the restroom and walked quietly to the garage where the van was parked, forcing his mind to focus on what he was doing now, instead of letting it drift into the past. 

Mickey drove back to the main prison, returned to the office, and threw away the rest of his lunch. He was no longer hungry — his appetite being pushed aside for later. Since he no longer had his lunch to focus on, he turned to the small stack of paper work and began where he left off. Irony in one of her worst forms. 

While Mickey divulged himself in his work, Pinkman walked in whistling some Beatles song and brought himself to a quick stop when he saw that Milkovich returned. 

"Mick! Dude, so how'd it go? Tell me all about it!" Mickey jumped at the sudden attention on him, and quickly thought of a story to get the curious guard off his back.

"Uhm, well he was easy to transport, wasn't much of a fight or anything like that, but he sure is fuckin' mouthy. Told me about what happened in the jail yard with Devon and when I put em in his cell he just sat on his bed. I dunno why you guys think he's some big fuckin' problem." Mickey spat out harshly, wishing for this interaction to end so he can push the memory away from his thoughts for another day, long away from now. 

"Sounds like he rowelled ya up again, haha, what did he do this time? Did he pull that shit on ya that he pulls on Tom?" Pinkman asked suggestively. 

"How the fuck would I know what he pulls on Tom? I've only been here for like three, four days. I don't just walk in somewhere and gather every fucking gossipy shit that you do, Mark." Mickey said, annoyance clear in his Chicago accent. 

"Shit man, thought you would've heard it by now, its kinda big, but its just a rumor. I think its true though, from the looks of it." Pinkman rambled on.

"Okay? The fuck is it?" 

"So Tom, y'know the one with black hair? Kinda like yours, anyways, ever since like three weeks after Gallagher got here, Tom has always been double shifting, taking night watch in Gallagher's block and one night another guard, Paul I think? Yeah, he's a guard that got transferred about a month ago. Anyway, Paul didn't know that Tom was covering the block and he heard some weird shit going on around Gallagher's cell so he went to go check it out. By the time Paul got to the cell, he said he saw a fucking hard on in Tom's pants, and they were unzipped! Buttoned at the top though, kinda makes you wonder what went down, right? I think Gallagher was jacking him off or some shit, or at least messing with him. Always knew Tom was a fag anyway." Pinkman finished, taking a swig from the water bottle he got out of the fridge. Mickey cringed at the word 'fag', but twisted the question that Pinkman asked earlier into an accusation. 

"What the fuck, are you calling me a fucking fag? Im not gay, Pinkman. The fuck did you get that idea?" Mickey asked defensively, forehead wrinkled with distress and confusion. 

"Whoa, Mick, no ones calling you a fucking fairy, I just asked if he tried to pull any of that shit on you." Pinkman laughed at Mickey's outbreak and Mickey promptly told him to 'fuck off'.

"Fuck off, Pinkman," Mickey blushed slightly, embarrassed by his outbreak, and continued,"no, he didn't pull any of that shit on me, he just walked and rambled on about how he pulled that guys arm outta socket because he called him a fag and said some shit in fuckin' Russian." Mickey confessed flawlessly; the perfect lie — for Pinkman, at least. 

Pinkman opened his mouth to say something, but his walkie went off and the static voice directed him to another part of the prison. Mickey sighed in relief and rubbed his temples with his fingers, somewhat alleviating the growing headache in his head. He continued to rub out his stress until his walkie went off, similarly to Pinkman's, and was directed to the Warden's office. 

"What the fuck now?" Mickey said under his breath before he set aside his paperwork for the second time today, and walked towards the Warden's office. 

Mickey reached the office and knocked on the door, waiting for the Warden to invite him in.

"Come in!" The Warden said, signaling Mickey to turn the handle and enter the spacious, yet slightly cluttered room. 

"You wanted to see me, sir?" Mickey asked politely. 

"Mickey, stop with the shit, I'm your fucking father, just sit down." Terry laughed as he motioned for Mickey to sit down. Mickey said sorry and did as he was told. 

"So Mick, how's the new job going for ya?" His father asked, leaning forward onto his desk. 

"Uh, its goin' pretty good. Not too hard." Mickey kept his response short, not wanting to say the wrong thing. 

"Thats good, my boy! Have you finished that paper work I gave you this morning?" 

"Well, almost. I had lunch duty for block D and was called in to transport Gallagher to solitary for pulling some fuckin' guy's shoulder outta socket. I was about to finish, but you called me in." Mickey explained.

"So, what you're saying is that you haven't finished the fucking work I gave you, because of me?" Terry raised his voice, causing Mickey to sink a little further back into the chair he was sitting in. 

"No! No, not that. I didn't mean for it to come out that way. Sorry." Mickey apologized, hoping his father would understand the situation before handing out consequences. 

"Sure sounded like it. Do you like mouthing off to your father, son? Do you think thats how things are done? Because its fucking not, Mickey. Now why don't you get the fuck outta here and finish that damn paperwork before I age another thirty fucking years and ya start to make a fool outta me." Terry raised his voice, frightening Mickey. 

"Yes Sir, right on it. Sorry." Mickey apologized yet again, scurrying out of the office and quickly down to his work area. 

Mickey quickly went through the paperwork, finishing it as fast as he possibly could before he was disturbed by the dinner bell, causing him to groan in annoyance. He had dinner duty and did not want to be late for his job, so he quickly ran over the stack of papers in his hands and finished them, reading the last bit of it with little focus, and placed them in the Warden's "in" box on his way down to the cafeteria. 

When Mickey reached the cafeteria, another guard came over to him and handed him a tray of food.

"The fuck is this for?" Mickey asked the other guard curiously. 

"You're the one that transported Gallagher to solitary, right?"

Mickey groaned internally and replied, "yeah, I transported em." 

"Then you'll take him his food, you're like his maid for a week. Take him his food and shit." The guard laughed, while Mickey rolled his eyes and grabbed the tray from the guard. 

Mickey cursed to himself as he walked to the garage and went over a million things that he should do when he sees Ian again. His mind raced over the lot of ideas before he just settled on being silent and acting as if Ian isn't even there. 

Mickey got in one of the vans, setting the tray of food in the passenger seat right next to him, and drove over to building 102, dreading what he would have to face in about three to five minutes. He reached the garage to building 102 and parked, taking a deep breath before he grabbed the tray and made his way to sector C. Mickey took his precious time walking through the quiet halls before he finally made it to the door that held sector C on the opposite side. He reluctantly unlocked the door, causing an echoing sound of the unlocking door to bounce of the walls, and walked in — preparing himself to give Ian the silent treatment. 

"Milkovich! You're back, and with food!" Gallagher said excitedly. "What? Why do you look distressed? Did you not know that you would be the one giving me my meals, for a week?" Ian laughed out and continued, "I told you, I know how solitary works, Milkovich." Ian said darkly, searching for Mickey's eyes with his dark glare and sadistic smirk. 

Mickey said nothing, trying his best to disregard the dangerously attractive Russian just feet away from him, and opened the slot in the wall next to the barred door, and slid the tray of food inside. Mickey kept his mouth shut and sat in the chair against the wall while he silently waited for Ian to finish his meal. 

"Ahh, greenbeans, expired fruit cup, cornbread, milk and slop. My favourite, thank you for this delightful meal, Milkovich." Ian said sardonically before he continued to eat his meal. 

Mickey waited patiently, moving his leg up and down while doing so, before Ian slid the tray back out, causing Mickey to turn his attention to the mostly empty tray sticking out of the slot. He stood up and reached for the tray, but when he grabbed it to pull it away, it did not budge. 

"Ah ah ah, one moment, Milkovich. Would you like the meat portion of my meal?" Ian asked, holding tightly onto the tray. Mickey stayed silent, sticking to his plan, which only irritated Ian. "Are you giving me the silent treatment, Milkovich? I do not like that, it is disrespectful. Do you want the meat, or not? Answer me." Ian demanded, causing Mickey to have an internal battle with himself over whether or not he should reply. "Milkovich," Ian said harshly, "do you or do you not want the meat? It is a simple yes or no question." Ian said, pulling on the tray a little, making Mickey's body move forward due to the sudden movement. 

"Fuck, I don't want it, Gallagher!" Mickey shouted out, annoyed. 

"There you are, thought I lost you for a moment there, Milkovich." Ian said in response to Mickey's outbreak, and tugged on the tray quickly, removing it from Mickey's grasp and turned to the toilet that sat in the corner of the room, scraping off the remaining food into the bowl before he flushed it away. After the food spiraled down the pipes, Ian turned to the slot in the wall and slid the tray through, still holding onto it. Mickey reached for it yet again and pulled on it, rolling his eyes at the resistance he came across. 

"What the fuck now, Gallagher?" 

"Did you take care of that problem that I left you with earlier?" Ian asked in a low hushed voice, arousing a gasp to leave Mickey's throat, but he did not answer. "I take it that you did, given the fact that I have been responded to in silence." Ian said, smirking as he did so and let go of the tray. Mickey pulled on the tray and turned swiftly towards the exit before Ian said one last thing. 

"Good boy, Milkovich." Mickey flew through the halls after that. 

Once Mickey returned to the main building, he dumped the tray in the kitchen sink, where the other dirty dishes were, and returned to group C's office, finding the group all settled in the work room. 

The guards divvied out slowly for the rest of the night, some staying for their night shifts while other finished whatever tasks they were assigned, clocked out, and left for home. Mickey had no remaining tasks so he clocked out and left for home as soon as he had the chance. 

The drive home was quiet; he did not turn on the radio to listen to his favorite radio station or plop in a CD, he just drove in silence and thought about a million things that he would never deal with. Mickey arrived home — a small apartment that he shared with his younger sister Mandy — and trotted begrudgingly up the stairs to his apartment. He unlocked the door and went straight for the refrigerator to grab a couple beers before he sat on the couch and turned on the television. 

Mandy was not yet home, she had night classes at the local community college and would not be home for another few hours or so, so Mickey downed the beers and watched some cartoons before he carted himself off to the bathroom to wash away the day — something he wished he could legitimately do. 

After his long, steaming shower, Mickey put on some clean underwear and went to his bedroom. He plopped himself down onto his bed, not necessarily ready to go to sleep, and just laid there thinking over the words that Gallagher had said to him with his pretty mouth, "good boy". The thought of Gallagher saying those words aroused Mickey, but he would never admit that to himself — instead he blamed the growing bulge on the poster of a half naked woman on his wall, and jacked off, relieving some of the stress of his day as he did so. 

Mickey would never admit to himself that he thought of Gallagher's pink lips mouthing 'good boy' as he came — no, that would an abominable thing to do. So he threw his now dirtied pair of boxers into his pile of dirty clothes and fell asleep in denial — dreams full of red hair and evergreen eyes.


End file.
